The Hogwarts Express
by aervien
Summary: A collection of Harry Potter drabbles. 10: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin. She mouthed them silently, testing out how the strange words felt on her tongue. Unnatural, she decided. Very unnatural.
1. The Hogwarts Express

_The Hogwarts Express_ is to be a compilation of any and all Harry Potter drabbles I write. And possibly one-shots. Although I tend to leave them alone. I dunno. I just dislike littering. Here's a blanket statement: **I do not own Harry Potter.** In my dreams, yeah?

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_2008__.10.03 22:38 EST_

Well, games of 'what if' are always fun. So here's the first one. I figured it fit nicely, yeah? Enjoy. Cute and mild **Draco x Hermione**, friendship.

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**The Hogwarts Express**

"Hello," she sat down across from him on the seat. He looked up in mild surprise. Most of the wizarding lines recognized him, which meant that she had to be a Muggleborn – what was the term? – a Mudblood. He steeled himself for the encounter; his father had _warned_ him about Mudbloods.

"I'm Hermione," she smiled at him, extended her hand in greeting. "Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you."

Draco was confused. His father had said that Mudbloods were scum. Were scum usually polite? In any case, it was enough to confuse him for long enough for his mouth to blurt out a response.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," Draco said. He then winced, slightly horrified. Had that been uncertainty in his tone? His eyes darted around before he could help himself, watching out for his father's appearance. His father would _never_ tolerate such a tone… Malfoy's were _perfect_ – he should never give any other impression to anyone.

"Are you okay?" Hermione cocked her head at him, mildly concern with the slight trembling of the hand that had gone out to reach for hers.

Draco looked up in shock. Alright, polite scum, maybe. _Caring_ scum? That was different. Could… could his father possibly be… wrong? "Yes," Draco replied, forcing confidence into his voice. "I'm perfectly alright. You're a first year student?" Nonsense, he scolded himself. His father was always right.

She flashed him a brilliant grin. "Yes I am! So are you, right? I thought you looked about my age! I'm so nervous about it though…"

A smirk came to Draco's lips – this was territory he knew. Suddenly, thoughts of his father being right or wrong didn't quite matter anymore. Here was someone to impress. "Don't worry about it," he assured her. "I've been told it's all easy. See, there's this Sorting Hat…"


	2. The Sorting Hat

_2008__.10.03 22:53 EST_

He was supposed to go in there anyways - I just sided with the Sorting Hat is all. Interesting concept though, yes? I wonder what would happen to Ron and Hermione in this situation. I shall have to explore more. This is **Harry and Draco**, friendship.

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**The Sorting Hat**

"Potter, Harry!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Harry released a deep breath and took the hat off, placing it down on the stool before almost hesitantly walking towards his new House amongst scattered applause. Feeling quite conscious of the attention to his scar, he sat down, unnerved by the stares of his new housemates.

"Potter, right?"

Harry turned his head to his right, bring up a slightly nervous smile. "Yeah, I'm Harry." Next to him was a boy his age, with blond hair so pale it _glowed_. His face was cockily smug, and Harry decided he didn't like it too much, but maybe he could learn to like it better. Although, he had to admit, as the upperclassmen were already shooting the other boy respectful looks, maybe it'd do Harry well to learn what the boy's trick was.

"I figured," the boy said dryly. "The scar's a bit of a dead giveaway." Harry immediately made as if to cover his forehead, but the boy caught his wrist. "Don't bother," he said calmly, forcing Harry to lower his arm. "Everyone's probably already got an image of you pasted onto their eyeball. You'll be recognized regardless. Ignore them."

"Er, okay. Uh, thanks…"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," the blond smirked again, holding out his hand for the other boy.

Harry smiled and clasped Draco's hand, "Thanks for the advice, Draco."


	3. Hindsight

_2008.10.18 02:55 AM_

Little interesting thing I thought up. Inspired by Lady Azar of Tameran's _Future Imperfect_ piece, which I enjoyed immensely.

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**Hindsight**

They look at each other, amused and unamused. They don't quite know how it had happened, but now it had. Lord Voldemort stares in front of him, into the dark eyes of Tom Marvolo Riddle before him, concentrating on nothing else. Tom raises an eyebrow, lips twisting up into a half-smile that show nothing behind it. He looks about fifteen, and Voldemort belatedly realizes that this boy before him has not yet split his soul. He has not yet reached that point.

Belatedly, he almost wishes he never would.

"I suppose this is a dream or something," Tom speaks, voice dry. Voldemort feels his thin lips curve up just slightly. He had always been so snarky when he was young. He'd almost forgotten it.

"Yes, I suppose so," he says coolly, but without the trace of malevolence generally in his voice. Without it, the raspy drawl seemed lighter, softer. It seemed more natural, and Voldemort notes absently that it was almost a pleasant sound.

Tom is scrutinizing him, examining him with keen eyes and a far too intelligent mind. He whistles, a low whistle and then snorts derisively, "God, you're ugly. Maybe we should change the future now just so I don't end up looking like you." But even as he says this, he knows that that is impossible. The fact that Voldemort is here now indicates that there is a future. And now that there is a future, Tom knows that it cannot be changed. Fate does not like it when fools play with her strings, but still, Tom wants to. He wants to grab the string controlling him with both hands and rip and grab this image before him of his future and burn it to ashes.

He does not want to become this old man, rotting and wasting away in a body not his own. He does not want to end up disgusting and alone, hissing and rasping out orders to cutthroat goons. He does not want it, and Voldemort can tell, can see it in his eyes. Tom has never been read before, but then, Voldemort knows Tom, for he has been Tom.

"Don't do it," Voldemort says, realizing too late that he said it aloud. Tom looks at him, shock written over his face. "Don't," Voldemort repeats himself.

"You have power," Tom says, eyes narrowing. "You have power, you have wealth, and you're near immortal. Why ever the hell not?" He is baffled, Voldemort knows, but he is listening. Voldemort knows the future, and Tom hates knowing the future. Voldemort is tired, and Tom is young, full of ambition and pride and drive. Tom is not yet broken, and Voldemort has long since crashed. Tom does not want to become Voldemort, but before Fate has decreed it, he knows he will.

Voldemort shrugs to the question, uncertain of his answer for the first time in ages.

"You get bored," he says finally. "You win, you sit, you die. It's more fun to live when people aren't trying to kill you. And you'll start to hate your people too."

Tom shrugs, pride not accepting defeat, and smiles sardonically at Voldemort's response. Voldemort says nothing, knowing that he has not swayed Tom, for the future is decided, and Voldemort knew it was a lost cause.

"I'll consider it," Tom grins. "Just so I don't have to be as ugly as you."

Voldemort almost laughs.


	4. Dumb

_2008.10.22 23:26 EST_

Something thought up on whim...

**Dumb**

Sometimes, Dumbledore wondered why humanity was so... _dumb_.

The entire premise of the war was that Voldemort wanted to control the world. And yet, everyone went after Harry Potter like nothing else mattered. Did they not see that that was exactly what Voldemort wanted? Perhaps Harry was the only person able to kill Voldemort, but Dumbledore knew Voldemort, had taught Voldemort. He was smarter than that, Dumbledore knew, and the old wizard was horribly frustrated with the state of affairs.

This, was why he never wanted to be Minister of Magic.

There was so much _more_ to this war than just _Harry_. Sure, the boy was important – even he acknowledged that. However, even Minerva couldn't see the foolishness of placing all your hope on the slim shoulders of one young boy with a penchant for angst and violence. Dumbledore loved the boy, but really! Harry had a flair for dramatics that the Headmaster sometimes wished to beat out of him.

Honestly, sending Voldemort a letter challenging him to a photo contest? Dumbledore threw his hands up in the air before lowering them to rummage around his desk. Now where did he put that quill and parchment... aha!

Three hours later, Voldemort received the official resignation of one Albus Dumbledore from the position of his Chief Arch-Nemesis.


	5. Friends

_2008.10.24 03:19 EST_

Yeah... this one is for all those people who (like me tonight) stay up late late late to work on essays...

**Friends**

"What're you still doing up?" Hermione asked, baffled at the sight of Harry and Ron bent over a coffee table in front of the fireplace, scribbling furiously and rubbing obviously tired eyes. They looked disheveled, as if they'd stayed up until –

"Harry! Ron! It's three in the bloody morning!"

Harry glanced up at her, grimacing. "We _know_, Hermione," he muttered before looking back down at his parchment. "Some of us just..."

"Can't manage to write an essay for Snape within six hours," Ron finished gloomily, staring off in the flames as if his essay would magically write itself.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well," she said, voice exasperated, "I, am going back to bed. And you should too!"

"Yes, mother," Harry and Ron chorused wearily.

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione spun and started towards the girl's dormitories. But once at the foot of the stairs, the girl found herself hesitating, not quite willing to go up just yet. Wavering for a good thirty seconds, Hermione finally sighed irritably before spinning once more and stalking back to the coffee table.

Flouncing down before Harry and Ron's astonished but grateful grins, Hermione held her hand out imperiously. "Well?" she said, grinning dryly back. "Give 'em here!"


	6. Prophecy Come True

_2008.10.25 23:45 EST_

Yeah... this one was kinda random, but hey, it's funny. Before anyone says anything, 'Sybill' is, I believe, the British spelling. Americans spell it 'Sibill'. I think. Or something like that.

**Prophecy Come True**

Sybill Trelawney was generally considered to be a crazy old bat of a woman. The type of woman who lives in a swamp bemoaning the fate of mankind. The type of woman with fifty cats and no husband. The type of woman who lives in a cave shrieking her head off – or maybe that's just a banshee.

In any case…

Sybill could never quite figure out why no one would take her seriously. Her predictions always (never) came true! She was a fabulous (horrendous) teacher! She carried herself with poise (opposite-of-poise) and dignity! Really, she did _not_ deserve the awful rumors going around the school that she was a nutjob and completely useless! The outrage of it all! Dumbledore should know _better_ and quite frankly, Sybill was very, very disappointed.

"Now, now, Sybill," Flitwick smiled feebly at the upset woman as she crashed into his office with a bottle of sherry, wailing loudly. (She did this at least once a month to the other teachers. He'd known this was his turn this month and had thus made sure to keep his office bare.) "I'm sure the students love your class. Why, I hear nothing but good from Miss Brown and Miss Patil!" '_And nothing but complaints from Miss Granger of how you constantly predict Mister Potter's untimely death…_'

Sybill sniffed, "Oh, those two. Yes, they are two of the only ones who truly have a sense of the Inner Eye. Only them!"

The short man smiled feebly again and firmly shooed the Divination professor out of his classroom.

Sybill stood outside for a bit, glaring in displeasure. She let out a howl of rage and stalked back to her room, grabbing a newspaper clipping out of her shrouds and ripping it to shreds in a pile in the hallway.

Fifteen minutes later, Dumbledore came looking for his Charms teacher and saw the pile of paper. A quick '_reparo!_' remade the clipping and the Headmaster's jaw almost dropped open.

'_One Harriet Jeyn Potter, ten, of Privet Circle, Giant Wingham, South Africa was murdered today by…'_


	7. Father Says No

_2008.10.26 21:30 EST_

I just keep churning these out, don't I? Continuation of **The Hogwarts Express.** I don't like this as much. Don't worry, there's more.

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**Father Says No**

"Draco!"

The ten-year-old boy stared ahead determinedly, not reacting.

"Draco!"

Draco screwed his eyes shut and walked faster.

"_Draco!_"

Gritting his teeth, he finally stopped. A pair of running feet ran up beside him. He didn't turn around – he already knew the bushy brown hair, the flushed red face, the glaring eyes.

"You prat! Draco, why are you ignoring me?" Hermione snapped at him, frustration clearly boiling over.

Draco looked at her coolly, gaze level. Hermione shrank back a bit, almost involuntarily, before catching herself and narrowing her eyes right back at him. She didn't move, instead crossing her arms with a little 'hmph'. The blond boy sneered at her before turning on his heel and stalking away once more.

"Draco!"

Draco glanced over his shoulder, but kept walking, saying lazily, "You're a Gryffindor, Hermione. My dad told me to watch out for Gryffindors, so I can't trust you. And since you're a Mudblood there's nothing to be gained from befriending you. And so," he stopped and tilted his head back to gaze at her, "there is no point in me being your friend. Forget the train ride, Granger. It never happened."

And with that, the wall slid open, revealing the Slytherin common room. Hermione watched in astonishment as Draco entered to the immediate attention of his peers, staring as the wall slid shut once more.

Inside the common room, Draco felt a strange twist in his gut, but banished the thought. His father had said no, and so, no it was.


	8. About Time

_2008.11.05 18:50 EST_

**Harry x Pansy** has always been something I've wanted to explore. After all, pairing together Hermione and Draco is perfect for me - Gryffindor Princess, Slytherin Price. So what about the Slytherin Princess and the Gryffindor Prince? I think we can all agree that these four people are probably the most influential students there are in their grade. Doesn't Harry x Pansy make a sort of... sense? Well, regardless. Here's to crack pairings.

And to those following US politics - be proud. Yes, we could. Yes, we did.

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**About Time**

"Did anyone follow you?" she asked sharply when they finally met at the top of the Astronomy tower.

He rolled his eyes. She asked him that question every time. "I survived the bloody _war_, Pans, what do you think? Besides, isn't tonight's purpose to _get_ discovered?" She shot him a withering look, sniffed and turned away. He grinned and reached for her. "C'mon, Pans, relax," he whispered, pulling her into his arms, breathing in the expensive perfume she always wore. It was a Muggle brand – Dior or something like that – and he'd been secretly delighted when Hermione had noticed and told him about it. He never would've expected something like that from her, Pureblood princess that she was.

But as she twisted in his arms, he banished such thoughts, concentrating solely on the warm body next to his. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding his close. He could practically feel her relaxing against him. He always felt a slight thrill every time she did – two months ago, in the throes of battle, it never would have happened. Pansy Parkinson was not a name to be uttered in the same sentence as Harry Potter.

The war was barely over, and it had left its mark. An ugly wound in the Wizarding World that would no doubt need a millennium to heal. But Harry was hopeful. It was not a lost cause. He had proof.

"Draco was gone again tonight," Pansy murmured, stepping away from his and smirking cheekily up at him, eyes glittering. "I needed help with my Transfiguration, so I tried to find him." Her smirk widened into a grin. "I found him all right, snogging Granger in an obscure corner of the library. I don't think they saw me." She tilted her head, smile bemused now. "What do you think they'll say once they meet us here tonight?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing horrible without being hypocrites," he replied dryly. "It's only Hermione and Malfoy, after all, and they're obviously..." He wiggled his fingers in the air, searching for the right word.

"Together?" Pansy supplied, perfect brow raised in mocking. "Come now, Potter. I would've thought Gryffindors would at least be able to _talk_ considering most of you do so nonstop."

Harry growled at her, before ignoring her snigger and bending down to capture her lips.

Sighing, Harry pulled Pansy close to him, stroking her hair. "Y'know," he spoke softly, "they still won't be here for another fifteen minutes. We don't have to tell them."

There was silence, then Pansy lifted her head to stare at him incredulously, "What, and have all those stupid little hussies keep swarming you every day? I think not!" The stare turned into a fierce glare, glowing with some deep feeling without a name. "You're _mine_, Potter. It's about time the world knew that."


	9. Scream

_2008.11.09 00:28 EST_

I don't know what this is. It came to me.

I keep thinking about Tom, about Voldemort, about what that means - Tom and Voldemort. Because there's a difference. I sincerely believe that there is a difference.

If someone told me to name one thing I really dislike about the HP series it would be that Voldemort - no, _Tom_ - doesn't get nearly as much words as he should. Yeah, keep telling us he's a psycopath, JKR - _that is not the whole story_. There's something more. People don't just decide to give up their souls because they're scared of death. People don't just look for world domination because of fearing to die. And people don't just despise dying just because their mother did. There's something missing in the HP books. Well, that'll be what _Morsmordre_ is all about. So I guess people will just have to wait for that to get uploaded to see my take on things.

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**Scream**

He wanted to scream. Scream until his lungs gave out. Scream until his throat was raw. Scream until all that could come out was empty air and blood-soaked wheezes. Scream until there was no air left, no blood left, no nothing left. Scream until his lungs collapsed from pressure, and his throat clenched with pain, and his eyes burst into showers of blood.

He wanted to scream and scream and scream, until he was all screamed away, all screamed away, all screamed away.

Tear, rip, hurt, harm, crush, clench, take, no.

No.

He didn't, because he couldn't, because he wouldn't. He had come so far, so far, from so long ago, and things were close, so close, and it had to happen. He closed his eyes. They would happen. He had given up so much – _parts of himself_ – too much – for this to fail – for _him_ to fail.

Death Eaters went on rampage. Order members fought back. The pendulum swung, back and forth, and no one knew where it would point in the end, or even if it would break from the fragile string that held it and crash down upon them all, ending the struggle with no winner in sight, everything lost.

Everything is lost, his mind whispered to him. Everything was already lost.

No, no, no. He was not lost. Power. He had power. He had so much power he hardly knew what to do with it all – wait, that's right – kill the Muggles. Kill the Muggleborn. Kill the Mudbloods. Kill. Kill. _Avada Kedavra_.

Sometimes he felt pleasure, seeing them scream before him. Sometimes he felt nothing, sneering at them, writhing on the ground at his feet. Lower than scum, all of them. Lower than the Mudbloods, lower than anything.

This was the company he kept these days? No wonder he was failing. He was fighting mud with dust.

The mirror broke. Bad luck. But nothing worse could happen to him that that which he had done to himself.

Tom Riddle looked into the shattered pieces.

Lord Voldemort stared back.

He wanted to scream.


	10. Simply Magical

_2008.12.04 16:46_

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's been like a month. Hush. Anyways, here you go. Darling Hermione, eleven years old, after a meeting with a certain strange man (most probably wearing funny looking robes and all.)

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**Simply Magical**

_Line. Line. Line. Line._

Her eyes whipped across the page, smoothly and without pause. This was not new procedure. But this was certainly new territory.

_Line. Line. Line. Line._

So far, so good. She felt confidant, already feeling the uneasiness subside after that strange, strange man's visit. The book he had been kind enough to lend to her - _Hogwarts, A History_ – was currently in front of her on the desk. Her short legs swung freely from the chair on which she was sitting, hunched over in concentration as she greedily absorbed every word before her.

_Line. Line. Line. Line._

Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin. She mouthed them silently, testing out how the strange words felt on her tongue. Unnatural, she decided. Very unnatural. She bit her lip. That was a bad sign. She mouthed them again. It felt a little better. Still unsure, she bent her head down again, ignoring the nervous little voice in the back of her head.

_Line. Line. Line. Line._

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardy. That's what the strange man had said. She licked her lips. It sounded... unreal. Even for an eleven-year-old, she was quite practical. Magic? It _couldn't_ exist. Everything she had read – Aristotle, Newton, Einstein – it all denied the existence of magic. The world was a _rational_ place A _scientific_ place.

_Line. Line. Line. Line._

Hermione flipped the page and her eyes landed suddenly on the moving picture before her, covering the entire right-hand page. She stared at it, mouth dropping open, eyes wide with surprise, then excitement. Hurriedly, she read the opposite page, and she broke out into a grin, unable to contain the little squeal that came out in her glee.

The castle had a _library_. And it was simply _magical._


End file.
